


Evoke

by purple_cube



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 16:15:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2315675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_cube/pseuds/purple_cube
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being reminded of the past gives Katniss a new perspective on the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evoke

**Author's Note:**

> For swishywillow, who tagged me in the Everlark Drabble Challenge on Tumblr with the prompt ‘time-traveling’. Post-Mockingjay, pre-epilogue.

  

Gale tells me that it’s called a _museum_. Not a memorial, because there is no adulation of the victims, nor condemnation of the perpetrators. The new building serves only to objectively record the past and inform future generations of the Games. When the invitation arrives in the mail, five years after the end of the war and on the day that would have ushered in the 81 st Games, I drop it into Peeta’s lap without a word. He never mentions it, so I can only assume that he feels the way I do – we don’t need a museum to remember the Games. We return to the arena every time we close our eyes.  

 

Five years later, Gale informs me – in person – about the opening of the new wing of the building. An entire section dedicated to the victors. Their names, personal history, stories of their Games – and information about their lives following victory. All provided that they – or in most cases, their nearest living relatives – have provided consent. Peeta and I don’t consent, so Gale merely adds our names to the end of a very long list of Hunger Games victors.

 

We still don’t visit.

 

On the 15th anniversary of war’s end, there is a new memorial in the Capitol, dedicated to the young who were lost. Children like Prim.

 

We climb aboard a train for the first time since leaving for the Quarter Quell. They are different now, made up of carriages filled with rows of seats – to transport many, rather than the privileged few. Peeta holds my hand the entire way, and we fall asleep with my head on his shoulder and his resting against mine. Ignoring the gentle rocking of the train, I can almost imagine that we’re in privacy of our home. But we’re not, and I wait until the train emerges from the final tunnel and the Capitol’s harbor comes into view before wrapping a scarf around my head. Peeta gives me a small smile before hiding his own hair – and a little of those distinctive blue eyes – beneath a cap.

 

The memorial looks like the ones I’ve seen on television. A series of stone sculptures that are tall and elegant…but impersonal. As I approach, however, I realize that there are words etched into the stone. Names of those who were lost. I circle the main sculpture once, then twice, scanning for the only person I came to see.

 

Peeta touches my elbow. “I found her,” he says quietly.

 

We move to the second sculpture, and I see her immediately, the gold lettering shining brightly under the midday sun. Whispering her name, I run my fingertips back and forth over the indentations. _Primrose Everdeen, 13_.

 

I have no idea how long I remain rooted to the spot in front of her, but eventually Peeta touches my elbow once more. “We should go.”

 

We should – before we draw attention to ourselves. My punishment following the trial has never been officially lifted, and the last thing I want is for the two of us to be recognized.

 

The museum comes into view as we cross the neatly kept gardens on our way back to the train station. I recall Gale’s words. _To ensure that people never forget – and never repeat – these actions._

 

I ask Peeta if we can make a quick stop there. After a moment, he agrees.

 

I fear that he wishes he hadn’t when we step through the front door. “It’s like being transported back into the arena,” he whispers.

 

It truly is. The holographic image that has been projected all around – with the exception of the door we came through and another next to it – is of the beach where Peeta and I had sat with our allies. Finnick and Johanna, Beetee and Wiress. The lake water laps almost to our feet. In the distance, I can see the lightning tree.

 

And, of course, the Cornucopia sits directly in front of us.

 

I swallow thickly. I was wrong about this being no worse than my nightmares. It _is_ worse, because the rational part of my mind is struggling, screaming _not real_ over and over again. Peeta must feel the same, because he reaches for my hand and grips it tightly.

 

We both flinch when the wave begins to our left.

 

“Ten o’clock,” he says weakly.

 

I’m on the move before he even finishes speaking. “Let’s go.”

 

We file through the second door and into what looks like an observation area.

 

Peeta realizes what it is before I do. “The Gamemakers’ room.”

 

I don’t want to stay here. The next door brings us to an exhibition, with photographs of the 24 Quarter Quell tributes and boards of writing dedicated to each. We take our time, reading every board before moving along. Beetee and Wiress are the first of our allies that we come across, and again I run my fingers over the etchings of their names. Next is Finnick. Annie must have agreed to have details of his life following victory listed, because he has almost three times as much written about him. Peeta steps to one side and initiates a recording. I recognize it immediately as the final propo that he starred in when we were in District Thirteen. I leave Peeta to watch it alone, knowing that he has never seen it. Even though he has long been aware of the fate of the victors before us, it must be shocking to hear it from Finnick’s lips for the first time.

 

When we eventually reach the section for District Twelve, I am relieved to see no text beneath my name, or Peeta’s. There is, however, a lengthy paragraph dedicated to Haymitch. It doesn’t reveal anything we didn’t know already, but it surprises me to discover that he agreed to have the information made public.

 

“He was just as much a victim as anybody else,” Peeta says discreetly over my shoulder. “It’s essential that people understand what Snow put us all through.”

 

“Did you want to say something about yourself?” I whisper, wondering for the first time whether he had only declined the invitation because of me.

 

He shakes his head when I look back at him. “I think people know enough of our story already. But the others should be heard.”

 

There is much more to the building, and I suspect that remnants of previous 74 arenas are here too. But I have had as much as I can handle for now, and Peeta agrees readily when I ask if we can leave. I carefully avert my gaze as we retrace our steps back through the Quarter Quell arena and towards the exit.

 

We both sleep in fits and starts on the journey back to Twelve.

 

“They feel more vivid now,” he mutters at one point, and I know immediately that he is referring to his nightmares. “But I’m still glad that we went.”

 

I am too – I think.

 

After a late dinner in our home, we sit in the formal reception room like we always do, our bodies curled into each one another on the couch.

 

“Anyone who visits that museum would understand the true horror of the Games,” I consider out loud.

 

“They would.”

 

“And what Finnick and Johanna and Haymitch and the others went through after.”

 

I feel him nod his head.

 

“Anyone who goes to that museum wouldn’t want a repeat of it,” I continue, looking for reassurance more than anything else. “They would never want to reintroduce the Games.”

 

“No. That’s why we needed it. I didn’t understand at the time, but I get it now. We can’t let people forget how bad things were.”

 

A long time passes before I speak again, moving away from his chest to look at him as I do. “So if there really are no more Games, the children would be safe.”

 

“The children _are_ safe,” he assures me with a confused expression.

 

He doesn’t understand. He must be thinking of those all around us, and of Annie’s and Johanna’s kids.

 

“ _Our_ children would be safe,” I clarify.

 

I recognize the understanding in his eyes a moment later. “Of course they would,” he says simply, as if there could never be any alternative. “Because we would protect them. Like we protect each other.”

 

So later, when I reassure him again and again that I want this, he fills me with no barrier between us for the first time.

 

And after, when he asks if I think we made a baby this time, I laugh and tell him that I don’t know. Then I run my nails lightly across his chest, in the way that I learned long ago makes him shiver with desire. “But I had fun trying.”

 

He laughs too, before pulling me tightly into an embrace and kissing me hard. “Real.”

 

 


End file.
